“It is not just for the map.”
“You are the first man the Anang will kill. They are not scared of the English. They are too crazy and too barbaric.”
Casement considers.
“Even if we turn back,” says Ofime, “do you see that sky?”
“It’s true, we will be marching in the rain,” says Casement.
“We will not be marching. You will take that umbrella and instead of holding it above you to keep back the water, you will be sitting in it.”
“All right, Ofime. All right. We’ll go back.” Ofime’s head drops in relief. He nods to himself. He raises his eyes to Casement and he looks, to Casement, as if he wants to pinch him. “So I won’t regret this?” asks Casement.
“No,” says Ofime. “No, you won’t.”
“We’re not being too cautious?”
Ofime solemnly shakes his head. He makes a joke with one of the porters and the mood lightens as, conversely, the first drops of rain start to fall.
Twelve hours later, the land has disappeared. Ofime was right; if Casement could sit in his umbrella he would. The trees extend their crabbed fingers above the surface and swift moving water carries broken timber and lost goods on its back. Below the surface, it makes weapons of stray branches. For hours Casement had waded with the water waist deep, then at his shoulders. The men had struggled with their loads, waiting for an improvement, but one that has not come. Ofime is somewhere towards the rear of the column and he hopes he is faring all right, but here—the shorter men are swimming. And then one of the Inokuns goes under. His basket begins to float off but is grabbed by one of his countrymen who, holding on to his own basket and to this other, sweeps his eyes over the area where the man has disappeared.
Casement sets loose his umbrella, freeing his hands. He’s a strong swimmer and closes the distance, looking here and there. The man breaks through the water six feet from him and disappears. Casement cuts a hypotenuse to where he hopes the current will carry the man. His arms and legs are tiring as he fights the force of the water. That man could be here, but who knows how fast one travels with the current when not resisting it? He treads as much in place as possible and his leg strikes something—a body. Grappling through the murk, he manages to grab the man’s slick, cold skin—his arm—and wrenches him up.
The two men are dragged along as all Casement’s strength is being used to keep the man’s head above the water. He manages to direct them towards a tree. He braces himself for the impact and there, forced against the narrow trunk, his arms and torso lacerated by the brittle twigs, catches his breath. The man, a boy really and probably only sixteen, looks in a panic at the water all around. He inserts himself into the tree, bracing against the current. Casement looses himself to the water, to other men clinging to baskets, those lucky enough to have caught hold of the makeshift rafts. He will have to send canoes to rescue those in trees in the morning.
Shivering and exhausted, Casement pulls himself onto the shore. The rain has halted but the air is still charged with it. Two men come to him and help him to stand. They walk him up the mud bank and to a grove of trees, where, at least, he’ll be sheltered from the wind. He is happy to see Ofime sitting there.
“I thought I saw you drown,” says Ofime.
“Close enough,” says Casement.
Ofime says, “Do you have tobacco for me?”
Casement manages a chuckle. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it, although how would we light it?”
Casement has returned to Calabar just in time for a party. His linen suit bags on his frame, attesting to the deprivations of the last few months. The MacDonalds’ house feels like a stage set. The compromised building materials add to this feeling, as does the crowd of locals gathered about outside, sitting in casual groups upon the packed dirt that pretends to lawn, watching whoever has assembled on the not-so-graceful but breezy porches of the building. There is always a sense of the commemorative about such gatherings, although the gathering itself is what is being commemorated. Something about colonials and dislocation and superimposition makes Casement think that parties like this are so that each can confirm to the other that they really exist. Let’s gather together the Europeans and have a conversation about civilized things! And Mrs. MacDonald had even sat them down at the front of the house, two rows—Miss Kingsley, the MacDonalds, and Bobby the dog seated in front, the rest in back—and had their picture taken. The floomp of the flash has frozen them on some plate of eternity and he wonders where this record will show up, what the future viewer will make of it. Will he be curious about what has brought that trader Mr. Lock, Shackleton, the doctor, Mr. Philipps, who is just stopping on his way back to the Bight of Benin, Mr. Harcourt, whose pallor and sweatiness indicate a true illness, he himself, and this Mary Kingsley—a spinster explorer—together with Sir Claude MacDonald, First Commissioner of the Niger Protectorate? And his wife? And Bobby the dog?
The photograph was followed by a five-course dinner—no jellies, no ices—and then liberal amounts of festive spirits. Here, in the Niger Protectorate, even the women drink. Or at least Lady MacDonald does, and he wonders if this is why she finds Sir Claude’s remote posting acceptable. She is a tough lady and, as she tops up her gin, most often announces that it is one thing that protects her from malaria: the mosquitoes seem to intuit that her blood is poison.
The Niger Protectorate does have its pleasures, but he is ready to leave. How to describe the natives here, as they are different from his Bakongo and Bangala friends? He can only say that the Niger people seem ready for the English—they are suspicious. They lack innocence. The Congo has something Edenic about it—although a violent Eden and one that is being violated—but somehow the Niger Protectorate is a place like any other, although populated by Blacks and governed by witchcraft.
He has accomplished a good deal here in terms of his career. He is now, truly, a part of the British Consulate. Yes. He is the Acting Consul—emphasis on “acting.” He has done a good job of convincing everyone that this is what he does, although the job itself is not well defined: The Acting Consul accomplishes whatever needs to be accomplished. On the top of Sir Claude’s To-Do List: wiping out human sacrifice. In this, Casement sees the hand of the pro-gin, anti-ritual-murder Lady MacDonald. But he can be respectful of the natives in his pursuit to end a barbaric practice. He finds the shock and outrage that people like Lady MacDonald manage at the use of human sacrifice to be disingenuous.
Miss Kingsley is no stranger to the local juju. She has written books on witchcraft and, in London, people pack her lectures to hear about sorcery and the like. “So what you mean to tell me, Mister Casement, is that you support human sacrifice!”
“Miss Kingsley, I do not.” She is teasing him. “But let’s look at this calmly.” He takes a thoughtful sip of lime-infused gin. “Even you civilized English have been known to enjoy a good hanging, and tell me that’s not human sacrifice. It’s all the same thing. Gather the people around, kill off one of your own, prove the power of your ruler, and terrify those who might dispute it.”
“In the name of order—”
“Tax is in the name of order.” Casement performs a sagacious nod. Miss Kingsley has been opposing the Hut Tax that the British government is eager to impose on the locals. She has been writing letters to the papers, speaking out in that high, reedy voice, her pale eyes all outrage and mettle, her shoulders pulled back, her mouth crumpled in an intelligent and unattractive manner. The natives might do better with a less singular champion, but she is, at least, articulate and vocal. The natives don’t understand tax—don’t understand why suddenly what was theirs now demands payment to another. Casement understands. As an Irishman, living on contested land is, if nothing else, familiar. And Casement, because of his Irish childhood, where his heroes were, although heroic, also losers, is a natural sympathizer with those in opposition to the Hut Tax, although now as Acting Consul
, forced to at least act supportive of British policy.
Miss Kingsley laughs him off. “What’s the point of us arguing? We’re on the same side. And it’s a small side. I’m just like you, not peddling religion. I have no weapons, other than rum and tobacco.”
“You are not like me. You are my superior,” he replies. “I am always working for others, compromising my own ideals. And honestly, I know I’m compromising, but beyond compromise, I’m not sure what my agenda is. You are a scholar—an anthropologist, a zoologist.”
“You’re flattering me, Mister Casement. I should be careful.”
Miss Kingsley is the most engaging person Casement has spoken to in months—other than the missionaries—but the missionaries, with God on their side, are not so maligned. She has a very odd story. She is one of the Kingsleys and her uncle is a famous author: Charles Kingsley wrote The Water Babies and a number of other popular books, and Mary’s own father—a physician who traveled the globe—wrote several volumes chronicling his journeys. But she, apparently, grew up at home, did not even leave to pursue an education. She says she was friendless. She says, “Hard to believe that, given my charm.” But she is charming and all the self-deprecation—genuine—makes him like her all the more. This is Miss Kingsley’s third trip to Africa and she’s determined to penetrate farther into the jungle, farther into unexplored territory. Her boat leaves for Boma in the morning.
“Why the Congo?” asks Casement.
“Well, we’ve all seen the map.”
“And that’s an encouragement?”
“If it’s a discouragement to others.”
“If you don’t like people, you can just stay at home and keep the door shut.”
“I do like people. I like my linguister. I like my porters. I might even like you.”
This is the first time that Casement is meeting her, although he’d been warned of her presence in the Congo her last trip through in 1893. She had outfitted herself in Loanda—picked up goods and porters—and headed off with no map and no desire of one. Casement had been told that sooner or later there would be the body of an Englishwoman to retrieve and send back to London, but Miss Kingsley’s body had returned by its own efforts, which was a convenience to Casement, and an inconvenience to all the rest whom it proved wrong.
“You have to tell me more about the local legal system. I’ve heard you’re very good.”
Casement shakes his head. It’s his turn to be self-deprecating. “There is no legal system. I make it up as I go along. I know a bit of surveying and project management, but this is my first consular position. Before I started, I thought it might be helpful to know something of the law, but of what law? English law? I’d be better off consulting the Bible—reading about King Solomon. It’s ad hoc wisdom—or seeming wisdom—that helps. And I can’t let them see that I’m making it up because these Niger tribes are not composed of stupid people. Honestly, they like watching the cases tried. Of course anything that’s tied in with religion or luck or practices related to funerals and victory—all of that, the stuff that involves human sacrifice—they have a hard time letting go of. It’s their way of life and they don’t see what I’m doing there, saying that even though the Opobos have defeated the Quas, they cannot crucify a virgin girl at the crossroads. That interference, to them, defies logic. Why do I care? It is not my girl being killed. I do not know her, nor her people. The missionaries are doing their work and I am doing mine. The personhood of a human sacrifice is inexplicable to them without changing their moral code.”
“How can we argue the personhood of a girl, when we treat donkeys better than men?” Miss Kingsley gives him a frank, questioning look. “I don’t agree, Mister Casement. I believe these people to be every bit as moral as Christians.”
“You and your juju, Miss Kingsley. If Christians lived as they claimed one ought to live, it would be a moral place. These natives are living as they claim one ought to live and it results in cannibalism, torture, and sacrifice.”
“So you support hypocrisy?”
“Not all Christians are hypocrites.”
Casement tops up Miss Kingsley’s wine from the bottle on the sideboard. “My success is in my work with property disputes and domestic things. Is someone’s goat grazing on someone else’s land? Who was supposed to inherit the canoe upon the man’s death? And sometimes I manage to bring reason to places where there is none. A woman was accused of turning into a crocodile and eating her neighbor’s pig. Another man might have sent both parties away, but I was interested.” He laughs. “I listened to the woman for close to an hour, and then the person who had lost the pig.”
“And what was your conclusion?”
“My conclusion was that if she could have turned into a crocodile, she would have eaten that man’s pig, and would probably have taken off his legs as well, just to inconvenience him.” He remembers that case, how the woman accused of turning into the crocodile had shown up before him, carrying, to his amusement, the same umbrella that he had lost in the flood a month earlier.
“And you are sure she wasn’t guilty?”
“As sure as I am that the woman accused the week earlier had not turned into a shark.”
“And is that a ‘yes’?”
“It is—as with just about everything—whatever you make of it.”
VI
Goring on Thames
June 1895
Nostalgia drives Ward to punting. It brings him back to the Congo, his trip down to Boma, the rush of it, the empty banks suddenly rippling with bodies, some reeds revealed as spears. He’d paddled for his life and with men who knew the value of it—of breathing, of circulating blood, of seeing—since in their vicious existences, life could be snatched at any moment: Life was all they had. Msa had loved him, had let him live in a reduction to his noblest traits (bravery, fortitude, generosity), and for this, Ward had loved him back. What would Msa make of this trawl down the Thames, where instead of war horns and drums one has the warbling of wrens, the plaintive tweets of thrushes? It is nostalgia, but a twisted one, translated in his mind, as if his younger self can somehow be played at the same time as his current self, a recollection of life-affirming terror transcribed over this gentle journey.
Yet Ward is not unhappy, although mildly disappointed with himself for this contentment. He stands in perfect balance on the punt’s platform, in charge of its progress. There’s a bend in the river and he three-hands the pole straight down, draws it back up, sprinkling droplets into sunlight.
Sarita exhales, performing frustration. “Do you believe Paulson’s story about the wheel being off?”
Ward considers. “Don’t you?” He trusts Sarita’s judgment on this. He’s not much of a liar and Sarita’s ability to sense falsehood in others sometimes makes him wonder if she herself is consistently honest.
“He reeked of beer,” says Cecily, the nursemaid, shifting on her bench.
“And how would you know that?” says Sarita. “You must have been awfully close.”
“Well, he did,” says Cecily. “I think he got waylaid at a pub.”
The two women are squeezed in tight on the first bench of the punt with little Dimples jammed between them. Cecily has baby Charlie on her lap and Sarita, a broad parasol that shades them all.
“Does it matter?” says Ward.
“James, do not think it’s all right to make things up,” says Sarita, addressing the second groom, enlisted as second punter for Ward’s relief, and seated across from her at the front of the boat with Sarita Enriqueta—Cricket, now four years old—who will just not sit still.
“Mrs. Ward, I do not make things up,” says James.
James—whose first name is also James—is Welsh, comes from some odd religious family, and is routinely the object of a lot of fun. Cecily giggles.
“I’d rather Paulson did lie,” says Sarita. “Who wants to be the person wh
o says, ‘How dare you stop for a drink?’ with the weather as it is: gorgeous.”
Paulson is driving the cart with the belongings. Honestly, he should have been ahead of them at the inn by several hours. No doubt, he imagines himself on holiday as well. Today, they’ll pull into Goring, and after that, they have one more day of punting, a night in Dorchester, some hired thing back to Oxford, the train to London, and a growler to Harefield.
“No, no, Miss,” says James. Cricket is reaching over the edge for a floating stick, unappealing except in the danger of its acquisition.
“Get it, James,” says Cricket.
“Please get it, James,” corrects Cecily.
“No, James, don’t get it all,” says Sarita. “You don’t have to do everything she wants. You just have to make sure she doesn’t fall out, or start running around again.” Two-year-old Dimples is satisfied with a small biscuit tin that she has clutched in her pale little fingers. Sarita strokes the sleeping baby’s cheek. “All this talk of Paulson’s poor behavior has made me want a glass of Champagne.”
“James, you’re up,” says Ward.
This shift is now well rehearsed. Cecily settles the baby into Sarita’s left arm and gets up, edging to the right as Ward places the pole lengthwise down the middle of the boat. He then—still in possession of a supernatural sense of balance—easily finds his way to the picnic basket. James gets into a crouch and makes his way, crablike, to the front. He makes a grab for the pole, presenting Cecily with a close-up of his backside. There are more giggles but James, flushed with anxiety, settles in, anchored by his short, strong legs. Once holding the pole, he transforms from this odd little Welshman, full of rules and problems, into something of a graceful athlete. He punts beautifully, this young man, and his steering is second to none. Of course, the skin on his hands is peeling, all that exposure to the sun, and his face is not serene, but rather in some sort of composed grimace. But he enjoys it, Ward is certain of that.
Valiant Gentlemen Page 22
